Dreams Can Be Actually Insightful

I don't often remember my dreams, anymore.  I used to remember them very clearly, and I even wrote some of them down in a dream journal.   I would then consult with textbooks on dreaming and books on dream interpretation.  For a long time, I wrote down many of my dreams.  There were tornadoes chasing my car, for instance.  Me dancing around a fire naked.  Me hunting sparkly vampires naked,  being at Ford's Theater naked, etc.  I may have made the dream about the sparkly vampires up.  Looking back, I've noticed I have had lots of dreams about being naked in public.  I am not sure why, except that I tend to borrow Angelina Jolie's body as a substitute for mine.  Apparently, my subconscious brain thinks that she's dreamy and that we look alike. 

Nowadays, the second I am fully awake, whatever I was dreaming about dissipates, vanishing into where ever it is that these things go. If I do remember a dream,there's usually a reason. 

The other night, (probably because my bloggy soulmate Andrea  wrote about her dream), I dreamt about my grandparent's pink house out in the no-man's land of Illinois.   It was a weirdly disturbing dream.  I woke up at 3:47AM and immediately decided that 10mg of melatonin was too much.   I finally fell asleep again, but I remembered the dream as soon as I woke up.  I had to tell Larry all about it.

"I had a weird dream," I began, as we were getting dressed for work.

"What was it?"  Larry was all ears.

"I was at my grandparent's house in the breezeway at night and there was a man-shaped blob at the backdoor."

"That's IT?"  I guess that he was expecting me to tell a long, drawn out tale.  Larry has been gifted with  what he calls "Scooby-Doo" dreams; convoluted affairs that take a while time to relate, given his penchant for play-by-play storytelling.  My brevity both confused and annoyed him.

"It disturbed me enough to wake me up," I pointed out.  "What the heck do you think it means?"

"It was your conscience," Larry asserted.

"You're actually telling me that my conscience is a man-shaped blob?"  I stared at him.

"Yep."  With that profound statement, my husband walked out of the room.  In the silence that followed his exit, I thought about it. 

That would probably explain a lot.